Tales of the Darkmoon II
Previous: Tales of the Darkmoon I The chapel of Adahn sat quiet amidst the raging of the storm outside. It was a quaint structure, ill-equipped to aspire to the nobility of a proper Sept. Outside, the rain bellowed; like petals of sorrow did water drops fall from rafters of oak and age. Within the musty catacombs of the abandoned chapel, vermin had taken root. Heretics and practitioners of the dark arts slinked below the rotting boards. Normally the constabulary was ill-equipped for snuffing out such blasphemy, and the Wolfknights were spread far too thin of late. The Saints, however, were closing in quickly. Outside, a small, squirrel of a man slid cleanly off the end of sharpened steel. Aurilus withdrew the weapon from the man’s chest cavity and allowed gravity to pull him down. The Saint then proceeded to drop his shield like an iron wedge into the man’s septum. Blood decorated the cobblestone. “Fine work, as always, Squire Vanguard,” Sinthaster said, pulling his hood from his head to inspect the gore unhindered. “Not much longer and you will be perhaps the first of my squires to complete your contract.” “Yes, Captain,” Aurilus said, never one for eloquence or fluff. It was this reason that Sinthaster so appreciated his company; if Sinthaster’s tongue was the sharpened sword, Aurilus’ bluntness was the stone that honed it. Before them rose the entrance to the humble chapel. “We had better hurry,” Sinthaster said. “They may have heard our approach.” A hooded figure rose from the rooftops and fired an arrow at Aurilus’ chest. A deft flick of his shield caught the tip, preventing injury. More arrows descended as heretics lobbed their volleys. “Something tells me they heard us, alright,” Aurilus said, raising his shield and running for cover. Sinthaster ordered Aurilus behind a statue of Fumna. “Draw your bow and make quick work of them,” Sinthaster said. “I’ll move on ahead. Fight together!” “Never die!” Aurilus shouted, covering his captain as the Saint sprinted for the open doors of the church. Arrows screamed towards Sinthaster’s head, yet his shield Blackwall would not yield. As he cleared the precipice of the chapel, the archers no longer had a line of fire. For now, the captain was safe from arrows. The pews birthed two angry heretics, their faces slathered in profane symbols of red liquid. Each brandished a hatchet, their edges thirsty for holy blood. They would not drink today. Sinthaster paraded his skill and worked his blade Screamer like the limbs of a huntress spider. Though he was shorter than the two assailants he found no trouble with them. Indeed, Sinthaster was shorter than most adversaries. If anything, it gave him the edge. As the two fools fell to the ground in pain, Sinthaster walked to each and delivered assurance of their death; this was usually a quick chop to the nape. “May the Seven be your judges now,” Sinthaster said. Soon after Aurilus appeared in the chapel, his bow now slung across his back and his quiver near empty. “Good to see you could join me, Aurilus.” “Good to see you waited, Captain.” As the stench of blood wafted into the air a new figure appeared from the bowels of the building. Another man, clad in robes of merit, scowled at the sight of his dead men. On his flanks walked two wolves, their teeth bared and growls deep. “What a mess you Saints make of things,” the man said, digging his fingers into the wood of his poleaxe. “Well,” Sinthaster said softly, “they say a mess always gets bigger before it gets smaller. I’m just willing to do the dirty work.” “Shut your mouth!” He spat on the ground, his tongue roiling with blood and rage. “Our Matron will see you flayed for your subservience to them.” He pointed to the decrepit symbol of the Seven carved into the stone before him. The man’s twin wolves barked and gnashed their teeth. “Our Matron will reign above the Seven, and she will make you grovel!” Sinthaster acted surprised. He glanced over his shoulder, then surveyed the blood-stained stone around him. “Well I am not seeing a Matron, so perhaps you would like to judge me on her behalf?” “You mock us. Rest assured, the Five will rise again. We will haunt your steps, plague your fields, even infiltrate your dreams.” Sinthaster smiled. “I sleep quite soundly, thank you very much.” The man snapped his fingers; his wolves lunged. “Captain?” Aurilus said, preparing his weapons. “Post up! Take my right, Aurilus!” As the wolves descended so too did the blades of the Darkmoon. They were not large wolves. They were not well-fed wolves. They were little more than dogs; they died like dogs. Sinthaster shook the pain from a gnawed, armored wrist; no true damage was sustained, but the annoyance perturbed him nonetheless. Across the way, the heretic was chanting some line of blasphemy. He did not seem afraid. “Captain,” Aurilus said, catching his breath, “I tire of this man. Shall I part his face with the Wind?” Aurilus rose his blade to the air, the glint of light from a rotting wall dancing on sharpened steel. Wolf blood ebbed in streams to pools upon the floor. “I think not,” Sin replied. “I would much rather show him my wolf.” Aurilus winced. “Sounds suggestive.” “Wolf?” The heretic barked. “I see no wolf!” “Well you see,” Sinthaster cooed, “my wolf can do something neither of yours could.” “And that would be?” “Climb.” Sinthaster raised his finger to the rafters of the chapel, the heretic’s eyes following obediently. As they reached the pinnacle, a shadow rose to meet him. Greyne descended like a holy demon. His blade and shield, pointed downwards, collided with the man with the force of Judgment. The heretic was dead before his head hit the stone. “Seven’s blessings, that was as brilliant as I had hoped it would be,” Sinthaster exclaimed. “I’m so glad you found it amusing to make me climb the rafters for the sake of dramatic flair,” Greyne said, pulling his sword from the corpse that broke his fall. “Implying you had any other choice. Anyone can kill heretics, but only the First Legion of the Darkmoon Saints can turn it into poetry.” “I could have been helping the whole time…” “Yes, but that wouldn’t have been as spectacular. Besides, I usually make you do the dirty work. Wasn’t it nice to sit back and watch for once?” “Is that what you call it?” Greyne asked. “Although, we should thank Keirina for locating them so diligently,” Sinthaster replied, ignoring the question. “I must say, her gypsy roots give us an advantage I did not foresee in locating these blasphemers.” “Captain, can we resume our mission?” Aurilus said. “The storm is getting worse; we may lose our quarry if they escape in the rain.” “Very good,” Sinthaster said, sheathing his sword after cleaning the blood from its edge. “Aurilus, take the rear guard and alert us if anyone approaches the chapel. Greyne, climb the rafters and investigate the collapsing belfry.” “Captain…” Greyne began. “The stairs are collapsed, Squire Vanguard,” Sinthaster said, sensing his trepidation. “Do you have a better suggestion?” “I could, well, not inspect the belfry.” “What, do you expect Aurilus to do it? He has weak ankles!” “Weak ankles,” Aurilus said in approval. “Can’t climb.” “Hop to it, Champion of Valrose,” Sinthaster said with a smirk. “I’ll descend and flush out the rats. Be prepared to pounce when they come up for air. Fight together, never die.” ……… It had been some time since Sinthaster had returned; Greyne took the initiative to leave his dreary post and search for his Captain in the depths below. At the base of crumbling stone stairs laid bare the waste of slain heretics. Sinthaster had broken through and forged his path of blood and holy steel. As the light grew dim, Greyne allowed himself to be enveloped in the darkness and trudged forward unhindered by lack of sight. An antechamber rose to meet him. Beyond the precipice to darkness sat a lone Darkmoon; Sinthaster, weapons etched in crimson trails, sat motionless. His visage was framed by a thin ray of heavenly light bore forth by broken boards above. “Captain,” Greyne said. “What’s wrong?” Sinthaster looked up with glossy eyes. His shield, dropped at the wayside, allowed his left arm to cradle something. A child; a girl. “She,” Sinthaster said, “was to be their next.” He gestured with his sword arm to the wall. Greyne’s eyes followed. Corpses. Children, no older than their teens to as young as stillbirths, all flayed upon the walls in grotesque figures and nailed upon wooden altars. Profane symbols of dead gods were carved upon their skin; their entrails spilled out on to the floor into circles of chalk and gore. Only now did Greyne realize the stench of death; he wretched and gritted his teeth in protest of his own bile. Mounds of incense and scented herbs had long since lost their potency; only the stewing smell of the deceased remained. “The girl?” Greyne managed to say, directing his finger to the child in Sinthaster’s arms. Sinthaster only shook his head. “The other Heretics have already fled to Baskerburg,” Sinthaster said, bringing his sword in alignment with a hitherto unseen body in the corner. “The heretic there said as much before I Judged him.” Greyne hesitated. It was not often he saw his Captain at so low a state. He was never keen on offering solace; he had been made to break people, not build them up. Still, he found himself offering a hand to his captain. “We cannot stay, Sinthaster.” Sinthaster sheathed his sword and grabbed Greyne’s hand. Greyne could now see the girl’s face more clearly in the musty light. She was young, perhaps not even 10 years of age. Blood streaked from her forehead. Cranial damage had been her end. “Greyne,” Sinthaster said, forcing resolve, “take Aurilus and report to Ser Althalos Stonegate at the Hall of Lords. Tell him what transpired here.” “And you?” “I will stay here, for a time. These children deserve a proper burial and I will not have them wait for laborers to arrive. They have suffered enough already.” ……… It was dusk. Sinthaster wrapped the last body, the frail form of the girl he cradled, in his Darkmoon coat. He lowered the girl, her figure draped in the blackness of Sinthaster’s garb, into the shallow grave he had dug himself. Others had arrived to help some time after he had begun removing the bodies from the chapel, but Sinthaster refused their aid. He did this alone. It had been a labor of many hours. He was tired, hungry, and filled with emotions. He remembered the passage of the Holy Sojourn and recited aloud from memory: “And so Matthias, younger of the two men by many some decades, did go about the task of sorting the bodies of rotted men, whose flesh was as vellum, and presented them to Dane. Thereupon did Dane beseech their trappings, their armor and their whispers, and ask unto Unquala, that he may know their names. And unto the stone under the ground did Matthias lay them, and it was a labor of many weeks.” “Parmenen Nolweva Almë, chapter four, verse 17,” Sinthaster said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “All innocents deserve a proper burial. Though, I am not Dane. I am not Matthias. I am sorry, children; I do not know your names…” “Captain Sinthaster,” came a voice from behind. Sinthaster turned to see an emissary of the Sept of Matthias. He carried naught with him but a look of worry. “You are being summoned to the Sept by your Legion. The laborers will continue the task you have begun here.” Sinthaster looked down into the grave at the cold form of the unknown girl. In her silence, she seemed to say, “it is time to go.” “Very well,” Sinthaster said. “Please, have the laborers do better work than I. I am no good at digging graves… even small ones.” ……… The Sept of Matthias was a grand structure and nearly as iconic as the Whitefang Citadel. The massive cathedral housed the largest Sanctum in the West save for the one atop Halia Mortes. Water ran freely through the aqueducts that ran tangent to the buildings frame; the sound of flowing, man-made streams could always be heard here. The priests had arranged for Sinthaster and his Legion to stay within the upper rooms of the Sept, provided they continue to perform the duties of the Sept during their stay. As Sinthaster climbed the steps of the sacred building he felt a tugging in his heart. Confusion set upon him. He pressed on, the stench of labor clinging to his clothes and face. He opened the door to his room and froze. Keirina rushed him. Before he could gather his wits she was embracing him, furiously sobbing in his arms. He meekly laid his head upon hers. “Stop running away from me,” she said, catching her breath. Sinthaster slowly pulled away, confused. “Running away?” There was a deafening pause. Keirina looked up at him, her eyes now turning from sorrow and concern to… something else. Betrayal. Anger? She walked back towards one of the dressers they had been given and leaned against its wooden frame. “Every time you leave I worry I won’t see you return,” Keirina said. She worked her nimble fingers over the surface of one of Sinthaster’s tobacco pipes. It had begun to crack near the neck, which meant Sinthaster used it all the more. “Yes,” Sinthaster replied. “So is the life of any soldier. But it has been a… trying day. Perhaps rest is in order?” He was both relieved and anxious to see her. To say he had been avoiding this encounter was a gross understatement. “For some of us it has been a trying half-year,” she said, rocking the pipe across her digits with gentle, rehearsed grace. Sinthaster felt a coldness from her. He had feared this. “Keirina, I know how you must be feeling…” Her eyes were ice. “Do you, Captain?” She said. “You were gone. Gone for what seemed a lifetime, captured on the road to Arkrest and thrown underground for 9 months.” “I had no choice-” “And I understood. It’s what happened after. Blackmist was repaired, the new order was put in place, and I was looking forward to enjoying some peace for once. Peace with you.” Sinthaster remained still, his eyes matching hers with remorseful precision. “And then you left. Again. This time with so little as a proper goodbye. A note in the night, saying you would return when ‘business’ was taken care of.” “I had to go. There were things that I had to do, and I didn’t want you to be involved.” “It’s too late for that!” Keirina said, throwing the pipe behind her in a flourish of rage. “You involved me when I took my oaths before you. You involved me when I left my home in Lindala. You involved me when I pledged my life to your cause.” She stopped her tirade when his sword hit the ground. He collapsed, his body and mind weary with turmoil. Her captain began to weep. She was silent. “I never meant for things to happen the way they did. I only wanted to keep you safe.” She did not come to his aid. Not yet. “I had things I needed to do here, things I needed to do alone. Ever since I came back to this city of my birth it has been a cavalcade of failures and misery. Man was not built to endure such sadness.” He pulled a strand of cloth from his form and let it sleep upon the wooden floors. “What is that?” Keirina asked. “The ribbon,” Sinthaster said. “The girl wore it in her hair.” Keirina stood straighter. Word of the heretic raid had reached her before Sinthaster had returned. A wave of sorrow filled her. The bells of the Sept rang like thunder. “Keirina,” Sinthaster said, rising slowly from his fetal form. “I ask your forgiveness. Here, in the sight of the Seven, renounce of yourself this warranted anger. I am but a man of many mistakes. I am not a ‘Luckiest Sword’. I am no ‘Champion of Valrose’. I am only a Wolfeater.” Keirina’s eyes did not leave the ribbon upon the floor. “It will take time… to heal.” “Then let us heal together. There will never again be a time where we are apart upon my word. None of the Saints will. If we are apart, our strength will wane, but if we stand united, if we Fight Together…” Keirina’s eyes rose to meet his, “than we Never Die. But, how can I trust your word when it has been broken so often before?” “This is a clean slate. This is the first great city of Men. Here, in this place, were the foundations of millions of futures lain down. Let us forge our own, now, and not look back. We shall only look to the future. I promise, I will never leave your side again.” They embraced, the smaller Keirina holding up the weight of her weary captain. “Rest now, Sin, and we shall talk when you awake.” “And you’ll be here when I do?” “Always.” ……… The next day Sinthaster met with someone he had not seen for many years. Under the cover of the fresh wooden rafters of the Bloody Tankard, the aspiring paladin met with Amarka. Robed in conspicuous, red checkered clothing, the young warrior was hardly recognizable from the image Sinthaster had in his memories. “So,” Sinthaster said, working a cherry wood pipe in his lips, “it means a great deal to me that you could meet me on such short notice.” “I understand the importance of a timely arrival,” Amarka replied, hands folded patiently. “As the Sons of Gildor get ever closer to their absolution, it seems no one has enough time anymore.” “Indeed. Now, because you are so keen, you know what I am going to ask, then?” Amarka shook their head. “I only know what I have been offered. Asylum. Sanctuary.” Sinthaster laughed a gentle assurance, “yes, Blackmist will protect you. But we need something from you first.” “And that would be?” Sinthaster removed a worn piece of vellum from his coat. On its surface was inked an unmistakable visage. “We require you to capture Nex Belain, the Luckiest Sword Alive, and bring him to the Sept of Matthias. There the Saints will take him.” Amarka coughed up a small helping of mead. “Capture the Luckiest Sword? You can’t be serious.” “My word is my bond. The Saints cannot apprehend him ourselves, as we have our hands tied by bureaucratic nonsense. But you? You can approach him unhindered by reputation or visage.” “He’ll kick my ass!” “He might as well kick my ass too, but you have no need to fight him. It is said that Nex cannot be felled by any blade, but booze? Aye, the Southern Cobra has a deep need for strong venom. Get him drunk and the rest is paperwork.” “This is not what I expected…” “So you won’t do it?” Amarka matched Sinthaster’s gaze with one even fiercer. “I never said that. Where will he be? And when do I need to get him to you by?” “My reports indicate with absolute certainty that one Nex Belain is here, in Leva Adium. In fact, within a few days time, he may be attempting to recruit for his cause in this very tavern. The rest is up to you. We have no set schedule for his arrival, merely your word that you will do what you can.” “Just like you, Saint, my word is my bond. Shall we drink to the deal, then?” Sinthaster put up his hand. “A handshake will do, I’m going dry for a time.” Amarka laughed and shook his hand. “You are certainly not the Sinthaster I remember.” “Nor you, Amarka. Let us pray our Sojourns make us better people every new sun.” ……… “You’ve become sloppy, Captain,” Greyne said, pulling Sinthaster up for another bout. “You’re not as dangerous as you were before your 9 months in the hole.” “Yes, well,” Sinthaster said between labored breaths, “that’s what I have you for, isn’t it?” The pair traded blows with practice weapons in the resounding halls of the Sept of Matthias. So long as the Saints practiced outside of the Sanctum, their training was considered the Seven’s will by the priests. Aurilus and Keirina looked on, trading stories of Gildorian cuisine and the fate of Nashuss Khal. “So,” Keirina said to Sinthaster, “the meeting with Amarka. How did it go?” Sinthaster winced from the pain of the bruises Greyne was so keen on giving him. “The deal is on. Amarka will distract Nex long enough for us to do our job.” “Distract?” Aurilus chimed in. “I thought they were supposed to capture Nex?” Sinthaster smiled. “No one can capture Nex.” “So,” Keirina said again, “it’s a ploy?” “To capture the sword,” Greyne added. “You cheeky bastard.” Sinthaster laughed heartily. “Yes. The only person I believe that poses a serious risk to Nex is himself. Malek’Reth is far too dangerous, and I curse myself for having waited this long to act. Alone, I could not get the sword away from him. With Amarka’s unwitting help, however, it is possible.” “Here we go again…” Aurilus sighed. “Yes,” Keirina said, “it seems our Captain is a glutton for punishment.” “Aye,” Sin replied, drawing his practice weapon. “Speaking of… Greyne, another honor duel? I need to be prepared for the worst at the Bloody Tankard.” Greyne smiled. “Very well, Captain. I’ll stop going easy on you then. Lay on!” Category:Character lore Category:Tales of the Darkmoon